Bad Moon Rising
by tlogirl
Summary: A story set farther back in the original SPN story arc-around S3 or so: In this one, the Winchesters chase a job to New Orleans where they soon become mixed up in a very tangled web of strange deaths and dark magics...and where unseen powers could dramatically alter the brothers' future. Can they overcome an evil the likes of which they've never seen before?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: special thanks to **Stephaniew** for all her help in Beta-ing this story; please look her up and give her a read, too-you won't be disappointed!**

_Prologue:_

_The full moon's glowing face cast luminescent shadows through the moss-laden branches of the dozens of oak trees around the old house. Lovingly—and expensively-restored to its full antebellum glory, the massive house in New Orleans' prestigious Garden District was nearly invisible from the cobbled street that ran in front of it. The soaring columns girding the house's front porch shone bone-white in the moonlight, their bleached color flawless and pleasing to the eye...but for the dark patch of shadow that slipped smoothly and silently up one pillar, reaching and stretching to disappear into the darkness of the upstairs porch._

_Inside the home's master suite upstairs, a young woman sitting at a vanity table shivered and glanced uneasily over her shoulder at the open French doors leading onto the balcony._

_An older man, sleek and polished with good food and fine living, strolled into the bedroom from the adjacent bath. He quirked a silver brow at his youthful trophy-wife. "What's the matter, honey, are you cold?"_

_The woman spared him an irritated glance and resumed brushing her long, golden hair. "No, William," she snipped. "I thought I saw something. This old place gives me the creeps, I've told you a hundred times."_

_William Enloe smiled condescendingly at her. "Don't be silly, Bridget," he chided. "This place turned out beautifully—and I'll see a nice return for the investment one day."_

_Bridget Enloe rolled her eyes. "Is everything about money, William?" she complained with a whine. "I don't see why we couldn't have one of those gorgeous places in a country club up in Metairie."_

_Dropping his silk robe carelessly on the floor before climbing into the king-sized bed, Enloe chuckled. "Bridget, you and I both know how very glad you are that everything is about money for me. And I don't care how many of your little friends live up in Metairie; it's simply too far from my offices."_

_Bridget frowned and shivered again. "Alright, William, you win. I was only thinking of you and all the wonderful golf courses up there…"_

_"Of course you were," Enloe eyed her pampered, perfectly curved form appreciatively. "Now come to bed, sweetheart."_

_Rising, the young woman drifted over to the bed, a sullen expression on her lovely face. "Not tonight, William. I have a headache." She slid under the covers and settled herself with her back to him._

_Enloe heaved a dramatic and disappointed sigh, then clicked off the bedside lamp._

_Some minutes later, Bridget Enloe woke from a half-doze with a scowl of irritation, twitching her leg away from a tickling touch. A soft breeze sighed through the still open French doors, stirring the long ivory curtains. "William," she hissed. "I said not tonight."_

_A strange gurgling noise from her husband made her sit up abruptly in the moon-speckled darkness of the bedroom. "William?" Her voice quavered uncertainly. "Will?" Another tickle on the side of her leg and Bridget Enloe jerked away with a sharply indrawn breath. With a shaking hand, she turned on her bedside lamp._

_William Enloe lay rigid, his mouth gaping wide, his eyes bulging, cords standing out on his neck._

_His wife gave a strangled, gasping scream and flopped awkwardly from the bed. One of her legs dragged at the comforter and pulled it away as she did. Underneath the covers, William Enloe's body was covered in hundreds of swarming fat-tailed black scorpions._

_Staggering away from the bed, Bridget Enloe found her breath, and this time her scream was a ringing, shrill thing almost loud enough to wake the dead._

~~~~~~~~~~~~xxx~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i.

Sam Winchester watched his brother Dean working his way through an enormous bacon cheeseburger with both admiration and something bordering on disgust. Settled across from Dean in yet another roadside diner and trying gamely to research on his ever-present laptop, the younger brother's concentration kept being interrupted by the older brother's murmurs of decadent pleasure over his food. Finally, exasperated, Sam kicked the other man under the table. "Would you_ stop_ that?" he demanded.

Dean stop chewing mid-mouthful and stared at his brother in confusion. "What?"

"Dude," Sam grated, "you're driving me insane with that."

Resuming his satisfied chewing, Dean's expressive face grew a broad grin as he swallowed. "Hey," he said, "I'm enjoying this, Sammy. Just because you eat like a girl doesn't mean I should."

Sam's hazel eyes glinted and he rose to his brother's juvenile sally-as he had since childhood-despite the fact that he knew better; one did not win this type of argument with Dean Winchester. "I do _not_ eat like a _girl_." He snapped heatedly.

Dean eyed the remains of his cheeseburger against Sam's single coffee cup meaningfully. "Oh yeah you do."

His angular, handsome features growing ever more agitated, Sam glared at his brother. "No, I don't."

"Yeah you do."

"No, I _don't_."

"Yup. You do." The older man grinned smugly and wolfed the last of his burger down as Sam glowered darkly at him. "Okay," Dean sighed, sitting back in the booth and patting his flat belly with satisfaction. "Now, tell me what you've had your nose buried in for the last hour." His leaf-green eyes glittered gleefully. "You know, whatever it is that's been helping you stick to your girlish diet."

Sam opened his mouth, then caught himself with an effort. Heaving a resigned sigh, he let it go and turned the laptop toward his brother. "Well…this caught my eye the other day and I started checking into it. I think it may be up our alley." When Dean raised dark brows expectantly, Sam continued, warming to his subject. "Three prominent businessmen have died in New Orleans in the last three months."

"Oh, scary." Dean broke in, eyes wide with mock terror.

"Shut up," Sam shot back absently. "The weird thing is _how_ they died. One drowned in his kitchen sink, one tripped and fell in front of a running lawn mower, and one was stung to death by scorpions."

"Ew."

"In his bed."

Dean's full mouth made a moue of disgust. "Okay, points for gruesome."

"Yeah," said Sam, clicking through web pages and pointing. "But the clincher is, the three of them were all involved in the same project." His finger settled on a name. "The McCullough Group. It's some big development consortium or something. They're involved in a hush-hush deal with the city of New Orleans to renovate most of the old 7th Ward."

Dean's expression went bland and sarcastic. "'Renovate.' Sure. Otherwise known as 'bring in the big money to build luxury downtown condos and displace all the poor suckers who happen to be in the way, right?"

The younger man nodded. "That's my take, too."

"So…someone's trying to throw a wrench in their forward progress?" Dean frowned. "Not that I blame them, really."

Sam shrugged. "It crossed my mind. What I'm wondering is _how_ they're throwing the wrench."

Considering for a moment, Dean nodded decisively. "It's slim, but I like it. Let's get on the road, brother. We're a long way from New Orleans."

ii.

The glossy, jet black 1967 Impala crept down the cobbled streets of the French Quarter with Dean Winchester at the wheel nervously watching traffic and fretting over the safety of his beloved car. Sam merely gazed in wonder at the packed storefronts, open-doored music bars and countless restaurants that lined the old streets. Wrought iron railings twisted from the buildings like vines in a strange jungle. The sweltering, humid temperature and the countless ferns and potted plants overhanging the narrow streets only adding to the illusion.

A pair of laughing, scantily clad young women crossed suddenly in front of the slow-moving Impala, one of them even reaching out to place a steadying hand on the car's hulking front end as she passed. Dean scowled, his breath hissing out from between clenched teeth. For once, even the woman's attractiveness cut no ice with him. "I gotta get off these roads," he muttered sourly.

"Uh huh," said Sam, staring after the woman admiringly, his deep dimples flickering as he smiled.

"_Now_," grated Dean, his normally melodious baritone clipped and flat.

Recognizing his brother's imminent loss of temper, Sam shook himself and drew out his smartphone. In moments, he had guided Dean into the parking lot of an old, somewhat dusty looking hotel two streets over from Jackson Square. Not until the Impala was safely pulled under the parking lot's rusty overhang did Dean Winchester breathe a sigh of relief.

The laconic desk clerk offered them a rather insinuating smirk when they requested a single room, and Dean—his temper recovered—promptly slapped the seat of Sam's jeans and dropped the man a salacious wink as they left the office. He was still chuckling merrily at his own wit as Sam opened the door to their assigned room and let out a low whistle of dismay.

Everything in the largish space was black and white—zigzags, polka dots, zebra stripes and cow spots—every conceivable pattern seemed to have been used to cover everything in the room, from bedcovers to wallpaper to lampshades to chairs.

"Dude," said Dean, heaving his ancient and battered duffel bag onto one of the beds and glancing around. "I feel like I'm being smothered in day old newspaper."

Sam grunted noncommittally, dropping his own much cleaner and well-kept bag on the other bed. "Where do we even start?" He flopped his lanky six foot four inch frame down next to his bag. "Did you see this place? It's chaos down there."

Dean shrugged off his ever-present brown leather jacket, stifling in the New Orleans heat. He waved a hand dramatically in front of his face and began to fiddle with the room's air conditioner. In a matter of seconds he was swearing softly and punching buttons at random. "Damn it, this thing doesn't work. It doesn't work. We gotta change rooms."

Without a word, Sam rolled over, studied the machine's face, then pushed two buttons. As he rolled himself over on his back again, the air conditioner coughed and sputtered into roaring life, damp but cool air whooshing out of its vents.

Dean Winchester regarded his brother's inert form with his characteristically irrepressible grin. "Sammy, I knew there was a reason I brought you along." Stooping to place his face directly in line with one of the vents, he quirked a dark brow at his brother. "And I thought you went to Stanford, genius? First stop is the development group."


	2. Chapter 2

iii.

The McCullough Group's offices were downtown on Canal Street, eighteen floors up in a high-rise that overlooked the Superdome and soared far above the hubbub of New Orleans' busy reality. The Winchester brothers strolled off the elevator wearing dark suits and ties, both men nearly unrecognizable in their well-groomed and professional appearance. Sam's usually shaggy, longish chestnut hair was slicked smartly back, while Dean's handsome features were set in serious lines and utterly devoid of their standard mischievousness.

The receptionist glanced up to see the two men—one tall and lean, the other slightly shorter and more heavily built, both remarkably attractive—and brightened immediately. "Can I help you?" she asked eagerly, her eyes assessing Dean from head to toe as her mouth curved into an approving smile.

Dean Winchester drew a badge from his inner pocket, flashing it at the woman and allowing a fraction of a polite smile to curl his mouth. "Angus Young, ma'am, Louisiana State Development Commission."

The woman's own smile turned brittle. "What can I do for you, Mr. Young?"

"We'd like a word with whoever is currently in charge of your 7th Ward Redevelopment Project."

She scrutinized the pair of them, her eyes now hard. "That would be Mr. Toohey. Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Sam cut in, his voice deliberately too loud. "We don't, actually. But my partner and I have a few questions regarding the land acquisition in question. It seems there are some irregularities in the paperwork and we're concerned that—"

"Sir," she interrupted sharply, glancing around at the suddenly attentive clients waiting in the posh reception area, "if you would be so kind as to step into Mr. Toohey's office, I'm certain I can arrange for him to spend a few moments with you."

"Gee, that'd be great." Dean replied with exaggerated pleasantness.

The receptionist led them down a wide, rather grandiose hallway and into an enormous corner office. The view was a splendid panorama of the city's north side and the wide, slow-moving Mississippi river beyond. "Wait here," she said flatly, shooting Dean a somewhat accusatory look.

"Nice girl," Dean remarked quietly as she left. "Looks like she'd gladly have me roasted in hell at the first opportunity."

"You always did know how to make a first impression," replied Sam, gazing raptly out the vast floor to ceiling windows.

"Oh, zinger," quipped Dean, snooping at the desk. He inspected a business card. "Bernard Toohey. Now there's a name to inspire the troops."

The brothers waited for nearly a half an hour, and by the time the short, round, bespeckled Bernard Toohey finally bustled into the office, Dean was raring for a fight. The three men shook hands, introducing themselves curtly. "Mr. Toohey," Dean said, pouncing on the smaller man like a hungry leopard. "My partner and I have reason to believe that there are some issues with your 7th Ward land purchase and we—"

"You've heard, then?" Toohey broke in nervously. Fine beads of sweat stood out on his brow and upper lip as he regarded Dean, his smallish brown eyes slightly wild. "You've heard about Enloe and Foster and Goodwin?"

The wind taken from his sails, Dean paused uncertainly and Sam stepped in. "Yes, Mr. Toohey. We've heard. What can you tell us about that?"

"How the hell should I know?" Toohey half-shouted, startling the Winchesters. "I don't know what's going on." The little man began to pace, waving his arms as he talked. "Foster drowns in his sink? What is that? And Goodwin—please! The man never mowed a lawn in his life, and yet he does just that on a scorching summer day and manages to get gobbled up by the blades?" The brothers exchanged a look as Toohey continued. "And scorpions? Scorpions! I googled it—there aren't even any scorpions native to Louisiana!"

Pausing suddenly, Toohey regarded his visitors were fervent intensity. "That's why you're here, right? To protect me? I mean, I know the deal was a little shady from the beginning, but it was Enloe's baby."

"Right, of course," Dean reassured him. "But I need you to tell us about Enloe's deal, too."

"Do I need an attorney?" Toohey wondered, suddenly apprehensive. "I mean…I don't want—"

"No, no," Dean shook his head and patted the smaller man's shoulder soothingly. "We're not interested in that angle, Mr. Toohey. We just want to put a stop to what's going on here. That's our job."

"Oh, thank God," breathed the little man, slipping into a over-sized leather armchair. "Thank the good Lord." He put a hand to his forehead, wiping at the sheen of sweat he found there. "I mean, I'm in charge of this godforsaken thing now—what if I'm next?"

The Winchester brothers exchanged another quick look. "Tell us about the deal, Mr. Toohey." Dean said quietly.

Toohey moved both hands to his head like a man trying to keep his skull from exploding. "I don't know everything. I just know that Enloe had a contact down in the Old Quarter—through some woman he was seeing, I think. The contact owned a large portion of the seventh, and Enloe managed to get that person to sell for a song." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "I don't think it's a deal that would hold up under scrutiny—but William Enloe had enough friends downtown that he managed to squeak the paperwork through."

"And?" Sam pressed.

"And what?" Toohey shot back desperately. "I don't know 'and'. Ever since then things have gone haywire. Those guys dead and me in charge of this fucking thing." He shivered and stared up at them. "What do you want me to do now?"

Dean frowned. "Do you know Enloe's contact's name, Mr. Toohey?"

The small man rubbed at the back of his neck, still sweating. "I don't…I mean." He swallowed, visibly shaken. "I never believed in this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" Questioned Sam.

"Voodoo," whispered Toohey with a shiver. "The only name he ever mentioned to me was Madame Cecile…and that was enough." When the two men only stared at him, Toohey raised an incredulous brow. "I guess you guys aren't from town? Madame Cecile is probably the most famous Voodoo Queen in the city. She pretty much runs everything from the Ninth Ward down to the Irish Channel. Her and Daddy Six-Fingers."

"Daddy Six-Fingers," Dean repeated flatly, both eyebrows going up.

Toohey scowled and crossed himself fervently. "Look, man, I didn't make the name up, okay? I'm a Catholic from Minnesota—we don't have these kinds of issues in Minnesota."

iv.

It took the Winchester brothers two days of questioning and combing the French Quarter streets to find even a single person willing to admit they knew who Madame Cecile was—let alone where to find her. When it happened at last, it was not luck or skill, but simply someone else's choice.

The two men were arguing in the middle of Thibodaux Street, the unaccustomed heat and their lack of success combining to fray both brothers' tempers. Sam was in the midst of a furious tirade of both old and new business as Dean listened in stone-faced fury, only barely restraining himself from knocking his little brother to the hot cobbles of the roadway when a slight, dark-skinned boy tugged at Dean's sleeve.

Surprised, Dean blinked and glanced down at the boy as Sam's voice stuttered to a stop. "Hey, mista," said the kid, his voice thick with patois. "Someone wanna see you."

"What?" Dean frowned, bemused. "Who are you, little man?"

The boy grinned, showing a mouthful of even white teeth. "I'm Taytay," he replied. "And Mama wanna see you. C'mon." He craned his neck and looked up at Sam's imposing height. "You, too."

The brothers closed ranks, their anger forgotten. "And who is 'Mama', Taytay?" Sam asked as the men followed him through the crowd.

The boy glanced back at them as though they were simple, his light brown eyes incredulous. "Mama Cecile, boy." he declared. "What's wrong witchoo?"

"Kid, the list is long and complex," replied Dean with a smirk.

Within a few minutes of determined walking, the trio reached a storefront on the east end of Royal Street, at the very edge of the Vieux Carré. Unassuming to the point of dereliction, the building was small and made of old white-washed brick. Hand-lettered signs written in French lined the barred windows and dust covered candles and religious paraphernalia crowded the shelves. Taytay produced a big silver key on a dangling chain and opened the locked front door. Inside, the smell of herbs and dust was overwhelming, and the two big men seemed to take up all the available space in the little room as they crowded in behind the boy.

"'Tay." A querulous voice called the boy's name, followed by a brief spate of rapid-fire pidgin French.

"Oui, Mama," called the boy, then he slipped around the brothers and paused at the door. "Y'all go on, now. Don't keep her waitin'," he ordered before disappearing back out the door.

Dean suddenly grinned hugely at his brother. "Dude, I feel like Dennis Quaid in 'The Big Easy.'"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Somebody should revoke your Blockbuster card."

Trudging up the stairs in the direction of the voice, the men soon emerged into a large sunlit room over the store below. An ancient woman with skin the color of café-au-lait was ensconced in an enormous dark wooden chair, surrounded on every side with small tables covered in all manner of things, from tea cups to crosses to the bones of small animals. The woman offered them a broad, nearly toothless smile. "Bonjour, mes amis." She held out a frail, bird-like hand in greeting, and, after a moment's pause, Sam stepped forward and inclined over her outstretched hand, kissing the papery skin of her knuckles lightly.

"Bonjour, madam," he said uncertainly. "My name is Sam Winchester."

The woman laughed delightedly, the sound issuing from her throat strangely young and vibrant for such an elderly woman. "How nice to meet a man wit da old manners, Sam Winchester," she said pleasantly, her patois accent more delicate than that of her errand boy's. "I am Mama Cecile. Dey tell me you been lookin' for me." Her eyes, a faded, indistinguishable color behind age-yellowed corneas rolled toward Dean. "And you, boy, come closer to me, eh?"

Frowning, Dean threaded his way through the forest of knick knacks to stand next to the old woman. She gazed up at him studiously, like a scientist studying a new species of flower. "Ah," she said after a moment and shook her head. "Dat's too bad, boy."

"What?" Dean asked.

She shrugged lightly. "I see da mark on you. You don't have long to go, now." She looked him slowly up and down; with enough consideration that Dean squirmed uncomfortably. "Dat's too damn bad, indeed. I always did carry a soft spot for da pretty ones."

The brothers exchanged quick looks and Sam dropped into a crouch by Mama Cecile's chair. "What mark, Mama? What do you see?"

She frowned at Sam. "Pa faire to sega are moi." she admonished him sternly.

Sam blinked. "Mama, I'm sorry, I don't speak Creole…"

The old woman sighed and patted Sam's cheek. "No, chèr, I knew dat. I said, 'don't play around with me' is all. We all know da mark I mean, don't we?" She shook her head again. "A bad business, doin' deals with demons."

Sam pressed her eagerly, everything else forgotten in his desire to see his brother freed from the cruel bargain he had made to save Sam's life eight months ago. "Mama…he doesn't have much time…" The old woman nodded knowingly. "Is there a way….is there anything we can do to—to break the deal?"

At this, Mama Cecile hissed and made an odd warding-off gesture. "Non, chèr, non. It can't be done."

"Figures," Dean remarked sourly, and, leaving Sam and the old lady to continue their low-voiced conversation, began idly perusing the hundreds of pictures hung neatly on the walls. Riverboats and buildings and groups of long-dead people in all manner of dress, the photographs had no rhyme or reason. One picture in particular caught Dean's eye and he gazed in wonder at a sepia-toned photo of a woman and a man in ballroom clothing. The man was unremarkable-a white man in fancy clothes-but the woman was devastatingly, ethereally beautiful with her dusky skin, enormous eyes and high, proud cheekbones. The expression on her riveting face was a curious combination of amusement and challenge; the sensual mouth curled with the barest hint of a smile.

"I see you found me," chuckled Mama Cecile from behind him, and Dean straightened so fast that he banged his head on a basket hanging overhead, setting the thing to swaying alarmingly. Cecile laughed her high, girlish laugh again. "Wasn't I a sight?" she said, reaching a spindly arm to run her fingers over the glass of the picture. "Dis was taken at one of the very last of the Quadroon balls here in New Orleans. Nineteen ought five. Oh, but dat was a good time."

Dean goggled speechlessly at her, trying vainly to see the remarkable beauty that had once inhabited her age-ravished face.

Understanding, the old woman only laughed again, tottering alarmingly on her feet as she did. "Oh, chèr, nothin' last forever. Best get used to dat idea." She glanced back at Sam who was hovering protectively at her back, fearful of her falling. "You a nice boy, Sam." She said. "I hope y'all come back to visit me soon. Maybe you meet my grande- petite-fille next time you come, eh?"

"Your great granddaughter," Sam repeated in English. "Yes, ma'am,that would be nice."

With polite good-byes, the men took their leave. Outside in the bright, humid street, Dean shook himself bodily like a dog shaking off water. "Okay, that was just _weird_." He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and began to walk.

"She knew about your deal with the Crossroad's Demon," Sam mused thoughtfully. "She has the Sight."

Dean looked away, anxious as always to avoid the topic of his bargain with the demon. "You two kids seemed to hit it off just swell," he said. "What'd you find out?"

"Well, I think it's time for a few title searches for one thing. I think Mama Cecile may be a very big property owner in this town, and maybe that will lead us in a different direction because she's definitely not involved in these deaths."

"How the hell can you be so sure?" Demanded Dean, quirking one dark eyebrow.

Sam shrugged. "I just know; she's a good lady. Besides, she does Hoodoo, not Voodoo. I didn't see a single artifact or charm indicating anything else. West African creation goddesses and white magic is all I saw."

"Hoodoo," repeated Dean blankly, flapping his t-shirt and miming a man gasping for breath. "_Fuck, _it's hot here."

"Hoodoo is the art of herbs and minor charms for luck and protection," replied Sam, his pleasant voice taking on scholarly tones. "Mostly it's West Africa folk magic. Voodoo comes from the old African word _Vodoun _and is an actual religion. Some priests can manipulate spirits, as you know. There are also theories-"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean interrupted, dropping his brother a knowing wink. "I saw 'The Believers,' too."

Sam threw his hands up in exasperation. "Dude, I give up."

The brothers navigated through the old streets, the crowds growing denser again as they moved away from Mama Cecile's place. "You think that was really her in the picture?" Dean asked abruptly.

"Yeah, I do."

"So that would make her…" Dean gazed up at the flawless blue sky, figuring, then whistled, impressed. "That would make her a hundred and seven years old."

Sam smiled crookedly, one dimple flickering. "I believe it."

"Huh," Dean grunted. Suddenly his handsome features lit up and he pointed down the street. "Hey, look, a Po'boy stand," he exclaimed excitedly. "Let's eat, I'm starving."


	3. Chapter 3

v.

_The moonlight glittered off the wide, flat expanse of the river, making the broad sinuous coil of water look like a shining, slow-moving snake. He wore only blue jeans, and, feeling a soft night breeze brush at the exposed skin of his body, he turned his face to meet it, closing his eyes and smiling at the pleasure of its soft touch. He smelled honeysuckle, sweet and heavy in the humid darkness. The thick grass was cool beneath his feet and the night was serenely quiet but for the distant call of a water bird out over the river._

_Opening his eyes, he began to walk slowly, simply for the joy of strolling through such a beautiful evening. Passing under the massive water oaks on the river's banks, he felt the dangling Spanish moss brush through his short hair like the fingers of a long-lost lover. A small dock stretched out from the bank, its weathered boards showing silvery in the moonlight. Feeling none of his usual dislike of water, he ambled onto the dock, relishing the rough feel of the old wood under his bare feet._

_As he was gazing up at the face of the waxing moon, the bird call sounded again—only this time he was uncertain it was a bird's call at all. He turned his back on the river, looking confusedly at the dense greenery on the bank. The noise seemed to be coming from the heavy thickets of rhododendron and swamp grass that lay in the black shadows of the oaks. A strange sense of essential…wrongness…about the sound worried him._

_"Who's there?" he called loudly, feeling slightly foolish for the first time._

_The grasses rustled and he knew instinctively that something was approaching. His breath caught in his throat and he was suddenly acutely conscious of both his near-nakedness and the fact that he was completely unarmed. "Who's there?" he demanded again, his matinee-idol features wreathed in a scowl of consternation. "Show yourself!"_

_The soft breeze suddenly stiffened and shifted, now coming from inland and bringing with it a salty, coppery scent that prodded strangely at his memory. With shocked surprise, he noticed a distant house—enormous, white-columned and graceful in the moonlight—brightly lit and welcoming. He wondered if he had a chance to beat the thing moving toward him through the brush if he broke and ran for the house immediately._

_"Dean," a voice called, and the sound of it chimed in his head like a silver bell, freezing him instantly. He could not say how he knew, but he knew without question that it was the same sound he had mistaken for a bird's call—now resolved into the single syllable of his name._

_In a defensive half-crouch, poised for flight, he watched wide-eyed as the undergrowth suddenly parted._

_The woman who emerged to walk gracefully down the river's embankment made his mouth drop open in wonder. Willowy and beautiful beyond imagining, she smiled down at him where he stood on the dock. His fear dissipated like smoke on the wind, and he could only gaze hungrily at her as she approached. Dressed in a sheer, flowing dress of purest white, her dusky skin was flawless and shimmering in the moon's glow. The abundant curls of her hair spilled down almost to the small of her back and her wide almond-shaped eyes were an arresting, impossible lavender color._

_"Who are you?" His voice was uncertain, almost awed._

_The woman laughed softly in the warm darkness and Dean swayed on his feet, almost overwhelmed by sheer physical desire. "Dean," she said in a smoky contralto voice tinged with Creole flavor. "I've been looking for you."_

_His feet rooted in place, he watched as she approached to within arm's reach, the delicate full-lipped curve of her mouth making him shudder. "I need your help, chèr," she said, and he nodded eagerly, unwilling to deny her anything. She moved closer and the jasmine smell of her filled his senses, almost—but not quite-overpowering enough to hide the tang of acrid copper smell underneath. Her hand lifted and Dean was suddenly filled with both yearning and terror at the thought of her touch. Her fingers drifted closer, hovering near his cheek and—_

With a strangled gasp, Dean Winchester sat bolt upright in his hotel room bed, his heart hammering crazily in his chest, the smell of jasmine still lingering in his nose. His skin seemed unnaturally tight, tingling and hyper-sensitive, and he was painfully, insistently erect. Swinging his feet to the floor, he leaned over, trying to catch his breath and steady his heart rate, feeling nauseous and faint.

"Wasgoin'on?" slurred Sam from the other bed, pulling himself up on one elbow.

"Nothing, Sammy," Dean said quietly, forcing the tremor from his voice by strength of will. "It was just a nightmare. I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

With an incoherent murmur of acquiescence, Sam rolled over and stilled.

When his brother's breathing had deepened and slowed back into the pattern of sleep, Dean slipped from the bed and prowled to the window. Flicking the edge of the curtain aside, he gazed up at the waxing moon, confirming his certainty that it was the exact same one he had been looking at in his dream on the riverbank. He ran a hand through his short chocolate-brown hair and shivered, then pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. "All things being equal," he murmured wearily. "I think I'd rather be in Phoenix."

vi.

Three days later, Dean Winchester was slouched in a wrought iron chair in the mid-morning sunlight at Café du Monde, blinking like a lizard just emerged from a deep cave. His third cup of café-au-lait clutched in his broad hands, his features were set in dour lines and dark circles like bruises were smudged under his green eyes. Nearby tourists breakfasting at the café watched him as warily as one might watch a possibly dangerous dog in the neighborhood.

Ambling into the open air café, Sam Winchester spied his brother hunched over a coffee cup, a ring of empty tables surrounding him as though he were a plague carrier in the otherwise packed courtyard. Sam dropped into a chair opposite Dean and stared at him with a thoughtful frown, noting the other man's obvious fatigue with concern. "Still not sleeping?" he asked by way of greeting.

"I don't want to talk about it," growled Dean.

"You were thrashing around in your bed last night like a fly stuck in amber."

"I said," the older man replied, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Dean," Insisted Sam, trying to catch his brother's eye. "is there something going on I should know about?"

"Sammy," breathed Dean, his voice perilously low. "I'm ten seconds away from putting your lights out."

"Okay, okay." The younger man held up his hands placatingly. "Take it easy." Changing the subject, Sam reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew several folded papers, his hazel eyes bright with excitement. "So here's what I got from Public Records this morning. It seems that Madame Cecile, or Mama Cecile, or—as she's known legally—Cecile Devereaux, was one of the largest landowners in the city up till about three and a half months ago. She owned pretty much all of the 7th Ward, several properties in the Garden District and a good portion of the Irish Channel."

Dena slurped at his coffee, visibly struggling to pay attention. "Owned. As in past tense?"

"Exactly." Sam tapped a long finger at the writing on his paperwork. "It seems that all her holdings in the 7th were sold at the same time, in a package deal-for less than three thousand dollars."

"What a bargain."

"Exactly," Sam said. "And look at the name on the original bill of sale."

Tiredly, Dean leaned in and looked at the paper. "Colette Devereaux."

"Right." Sam grinned triumphantly, but when his brother only stared at him, he snorted impatiently. "Dean—Devereaux and Devereaux? I know it's a jump, but I'm thinking this Colette person is the great granddaughter the old lady mentioned to us the other day."

"I see." Dean yawned prodigiously. "Okay."

Sam shook his head and held up one long finger. "But here's the really interesting part—all the property was then _transferred_to the ownership of the McCullough Group just four days later."

Dean frowned and rubbed at one eye. "What do you mean 'transferred'? So you're saying this Colette chick swiped the property from her great grandma for a song, than just gave it away?"

"Sounds a little fishy, right?" Sam replied smugly. "It looks to me like the thief was robbed. Remember our buddy Toohey telling us about some woman William Enloe was seeing? I'll bet even money the woman was Colette Devereaux."

"So…," Dean said slowly, "Enloe convinces Colette to swindle grandma out of the land, then uses his friends downtown to alter the paperwork and erase her from the deal?"

"That's my theory."

"So… Colette starts swinging the Voodoo stick and kills the guys responsible for ripping her off."

Sam shrugged. "And you know what else?"

"I'm on pins and needles, Sammy."

"All the killings happened on the night of the full moon," Sam said triumphantly, not noticing his brother's involuntary shudder at his mention of the moon. "I didn't notice it at first, but it was a full moon every time. And the next full moon is only two days away. Toohey could be next."

"He could be," Dean murmured thoughtfully. After a moment's pensive silence, he sat up straight, avoiding his brother's suddenly curious expression. "Listen, Sammy, I've got to make a stopover on Toulouse Street today, so why don't we meet up at the hotel—"

"What's on Toulouse Street?" Sam broke in.

Dean scowled, his bleary eyes sparking angrily. "Don't worry about it, Sammy."

The younger man tucked his papers back into his shirt pocket and folded his arms on the tabletop, his solemn features set determinedly. "Look, Dean, you've been wonky for the past three days, you're not sleeping and you look like shit. Something's up. Either you include me, or I follow you. Your choice."

Dean snorted dismissively. "I'll lose you in the crowd, anyway."

"No, you won't." Sam shot back complacently. "You're the one who taught me how to tail, Dean. I won't lose you."

The two men stared at each other for a long beat, and then Dean threw up his hands. "Fine, Sammy. Have it your way. Just…just shut up about it."

vii.

The shop was large and modern-looking, its enormous plate-glass windows glowing with neon signs proclaiming that both Tarot and Palm Reading were available inside. Garish little Voodoo dolls and charms obviously meant for tourists were displayed prominently, and elaborate Mardi Gras masks hung from the awnings, their feathers wilting sadly in the humidity. The front door was chocked open to the street, and the Winchesters could feel the out-draft of icy cool air-conditioning from the store's interior long before they entered the shop itself.

Sam glanced at his brother to see that the older man's jaw was clenched tight, a muscle jumping in his jaw again. "Dean…what the hell?"

"Daddy Six-Fingers owns the place," replied Dean tightly. "I asked around and the guy does good _gris-gris_from what I hear."

Sam caught at his brother's arm, his lean face suddenly worried. "_Gris-gris_? Protection charms? Dean, what do you need protection from?"

Dean shot the younger man a haunted look. "I'd just as soon tell it the once, okay?"

Inside, the men were immediately accosted by a smiling salesman who laid on the Creole patois with a trowel. When Dean interrupted his spiel with a curt request to see Daddy Six-Fingers, the young man's face grew serious, his accent dropping to non-existence. "Who're you guys?" he asked suspiciously.

"Just friends from out of town," replied Dean evenly. "Mama Cecile sent us."

The clerk's eyes widened to tea cup size. "No shit, you've _seen_ Mama Cecile?" he gasped. "Hardly _anyone_gets to—I mean—" Shaking his head, he sized them up consideringly, then waved them toward the back of the shop. "Look, man, go have a seat in the lounge and I'll see if I can get in touch with the big man for you."

Less than ten minutes later, the young clerk came to the back. "Daddy says come right over. He knows who you are." He glanced between the brothers, his face both impressed and interested. "It's 1288 Dauphine Street—he's expecting you."

The residence on Dauphine Street was anything other than what the Winchesters had expected. Hidden behind a high-walled private gate dense with greenery and dripping purple wisteria, the property opened up to a large, walled courtyard that was flagged with expensive Italian marble. A huge stone fountain that spouted water from the mouths of bronze dolphins combined with the walls and shrubbery to entirely mask the noise of the street outside. The house itself was enormous and looked like a Tuscan villa that had been airlifted into New Orleans; cream-colored stucco with arched doorways and a vast red-tiled roof.

"Wow." Dean's brows rose appreciatively as he glanced around. "Must be good money in Voodoo."

"Boy, I don't mess with Voodoo," boomed a deep, merry voice. "At least, not no more."

The brothers turned to see a very tall, very fat black man with a huge smile walking toward them from the shadow of a trellised rose arbor. He wore an exquisitely tailored gray silk suit and leaned heavily on a cane of ivory-tipped silver with his right hand. His left hand had six fingers. "My money comes from my stores—the honest way." His smile widened impossibly. "Well…mostly honest."

"Sir," began Dean. "My name is Dean Winchester and this is my brother Sam. I'm sorry to bother—"

"Damn, boy," Daddy Six-Fingers leaned in close, frowning speculatively at Dean. "You look like a half-cooked puddin'." His expression turned sly and knowing. "Who's been eating at you?"

Dean's broad shoulders sagged with sudden relief at the question. Then he shrugged, a strange half-smile curling the side of his mouth. "I honestly don't know, sir. But she's _damn_mean."

Sam, alarm writ large across his features, glanced from Daddy Six-Fingers to his brother then back again. "Dean…what's going on here?"

But Daddy Six-Fingers merely made unhappy noises as he stared at Dean's face, ignoring Sam as completely as Dean did. He reached a huge, pudgy hand out to grasp Dean's chin, turning his face this way and that as he peered into his eyes. "Huh." The fat man sighed after a moment. "Well, then, boy. I suppose you come to Daddy to get her off'n you?"

"Sir," said Dean with uncharacteristic humility, "I would be extremely grateful."

Daddy Six-Fingers stepped back, his dark eyes shrewd. "Cecile tol' me she met y'all," His gaze flickered over the silently anxious Sam. "Said you boys was polite and well-mannered." He took a huge handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he regarded them in silence. "Miz Cecile was mighty good to me when I started out. She was the still the Belle of New Orleans, even then—though she musta been near on to fifty years old at the time. If she say to help y'all, then help y'all I will—I owe her that an' more."

He turned back toward the house with a gracefulness surprising in a man his size. "C'mon in, boys. I'll have Remy to fix us some nice cold tea and y'all can tell me all about yo' problem."

"Dean," Sam hissed as the pair followed Daddy Six-Fingers toward the house. "What—"

But the older man shook his head curtly. "Sammy, please. Just the once, I told you."


	4. Chapter 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~xxx~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They settled in the deep, cool shade of the house's front porch, the Winchester brothers watching with amused interest as a slim, white-haired old man called Remy brought them iced tea and fussed over Daddy Six-Fingers like a nervous old hen. Seated in a gigantic white wicker chair that more resembled a throne, the fat man sighed happily as he drank from his heavy crystal tumbler of tea. "Ah, the house wine of the South," He chuckled. "Refreshing, ain't it?"

Sam sipped from his glass politely, suppressing a grimace of distaste at the treacle-like sweetness of the tea. "It's delicious, sir."

Dean perched on the edge of his chair, one booted foot tapping nervously, his glass dangling precariously from one hand, already forgotten. "Sir—" he began.

Daddy Six-Fingers held up an imperious hand. "Y'all call me Anton." When Dean drew breath a second time, the big man frowned and shook his head. "Never mind all that, boy. Just tell me when it started."

Dean nodded grimly. "Four days ago."

"After you seen Cecile?"

One of Dean's dark eyebrows rose. "Yes, sir."

"I was afraid you was gon' say that. And I tol' you to call me Anton."

"Yes, s—Anton."

"She's a young woman, very beautiful?"

"Very."

"And she has violet eyes."

Dean flinched and swallowed hard. "Yes…you—you know her?"

Anton pursed his lips sourly. "Oh, yeah, I know her." He narrowed his dark eyes at Dean. "You slept wif her yet?"

Sam, who had been following the conversation like a man watching a tennis match, started visibly and scowled in puzzlement, but Dean ignored him, answering in a flat, matter of fact voice. "Not yet. But I was real goddamn close last night."

Anton flashed his broad grin again and chuckled. "You strong, boy, to fight her so long-she's hard to resist."

Dean smiled weakly. "Trust me when I say it goes against my nature."

Anton snorted. "You must be pissin' her off but good."

"Will somebody please tell me what this is all about?" Sam cut in pleadingly.

The big man sighed and set his glass on the small table at his elbow. "Sam, boy, your brother is in the process of bein' recruited for work by a Voodoo priestess. Once she get him to sleep wif her in the dreams, his will won't be his own no more—he be a puppet for her to toy with."

Sam gaped briefly, then rounded furiously on Dean. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Dean lifted one brawny shoulder laconically and offered his brother a hollow smile. "What could you do, Sammy?"

"She tell you what she want?" interrupted Anton. "What she want you to do?"

"No," Replied Dean, turning back to him. "But whatever it is, I don't think I'm going to like it much."

"I can just about guarantee that you right." Anton mused. "I know she been playin', but I didn't know she had got so strong."

"Who?" Sam asked almost desperately. "Who the hell are we talking about?"

"Well, who else but Colette Devereaux," Anton replied shortly. "I wondered about her when Cecile tol' me that little girl stole the 7th from her." At the Winchester's surprised looks, the big man grinned. "Oh, yeah. She know all about it, does Cecile. Let it happen, you know. Colette the only blood family she got lef', so she let her go on, indulgin' her, you might say. But then I heard 'bout them boys died funny here in town the last few months and I started to wonder…then y'all come round, asking questions." He glanced at Sam, still smiling. "Cecile like you, son." He said. "She say some of the things you ask her got her to thinkin' and so she tol' me to help you if you come to me…and here you are." His dark gaze drifted back to Dean and his smile fell away. "Soon as I saw you I knowed Colette gone too far; I knowed right away that I was right to wonder, and that my wondering was right."

Drawing his pocket kerchief again, Anton wiped at his eyes with a sniff. "This gon' break Cecile's heart."

"Can you help my brother, sir?" Sam asked softly.

The fat man tucked his kerchief away and eyed Dean like a man weighing a heaviness of metal, then he sighed audibly. "I think so, boy. But we got work to do afore he lay hisself down to sleep tonight."

**viii.**

_The soft evening breeze wafted past him again, lulling him with it's warm, velvet touch. Honeysuckle tickled his nose with its cloying sweetness and he heard the ceaseless, soothing murmur of the Mississippi at his back. The idea of laying down on the river's edge to wait for her washed over him like a balm, and he went so far as to go down to one knee and let one hand dig longingly into the cool, blue-green thickness of grass._

_"No," His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar even to his own ears. He let his eyes flicker up to the moon, whose gleaming silver face was barely a sliver off full, and shuddered. Turning his gaze from the night sky, he squeezed the small_

_ gris-grisbag clutched in his other hand—hearing the faint crunch of the bird bones inside it-and felt himself grounded again. He drew a deep breath, preparing to force himself upright, when he heard her voice calling his name._

_"Dean," The same soft sound he heard every night since the first night, like silver bells in the breeze._

_"No," he said again, his breath coming faster as he tried to rise._

_"Don't, cher," purred the voice, amused and coming closer all the time. "I like you on your knees. Go on down there."_

_Without conscious thought, Dean dropped his other knee so that he knelt in the grass with his head bowed, obedient to her will. "Stop it," he rasped, unsure whether he spoke to Colette Devereaux or himself. He heard her feet whisper through the damp grass and the scent of jasmine laced with the strangely familiar copper-like aroma overwhelmed and erased the honeysuckle smell._

_"Look at me, cher," she cooed._

_Dean's eyes had been pinned determinedly to the grass, but at her command, his gaze rose helplessly to where she stood before him. He groaned aloud at the painful, cutting beauty of her and Colette Devereaux smiled approvingly. "You are a strong man, Dean Winchester," she said with something close to admiration. "But I think our time has come, don't you?" Her hand drifted down to stroke his cheek and move across the fullness of his mouth with possessive slowness. He groaned again, first pressing his face into her touch, then recoiling from her. Colette laughed softly. "I think you know that I need you, cher…but I find that I want you just for the pleasure of it, too. What a treat you will be."_

_"What," he gasped, struggling with the compulsion to simply do as instructed,. "what do you…need me for?"_

_With a look of faint surprise, Colette frowned prettily. "Why should I tell you, cher? Soon you will be without a choice."_

_Clutching the bag against his thigh, Dean managed a ghost of his old, roguish grin. "Maybe if I like the sound of it, you wouldn't have to try so hard."_

_She bridled with a flash of childish, petulant anger. "Who says I'm trying hard?"_

_"I didn't mean—I just meant-maybe if I knew what you had in mind…both of us could enjoy this even more."_

_"My, but you are talkative tonight, cher," she admonished him suddenly, her delicate features thoughtful. "Whatever's come over you, I wonder."_

_Desperate to allay her suspicion, Dean reached out and settled one broad hand on the swell of her hip. Colette's riveting lavender eyes widened as he slid his hand slowly up and down, ruffling the thin fabric of her dress before curling his fingers firmly into the soft flesh of her hip. He gave his crushing lust for her free reign to show on his face, satisfied to see her breath catch. "I just want to know, baby…so I can…_

_relax."_

_"Oh," She blinked and glanced down at his hand, struggling with herself. "Oh, I…"_

_"Tell me what you want me to do for you," he coaxed softly. "I want to help you."_

_The sudden collapse of his resistance had thrown Colette Devereaux off her guard. "Well…I need you to kill Bridget Enloe, first of all. He wouldn't leave her for me, that bastard-said it didn't suit his image…" She scowled, even that expression fetching on her lovely face. "I haven't been able to get to her; I can't get hold of nothing that belongs to her." She rolled her hip against the strength of his arm, a wild light growing in her eyes. "But you could do it easy; you could snap her little neck like a chicken bone, couldn't you? And then I want you to help me make Bernard Toohey and his people to give me back my land; the land that William tricked me out of. You can do it, too, I know you can—and if you help me of your own will, why—even better, cher. Nothing will stop you, I just know it. You won't let even that brother of yours stop you if you want something, will you? No, not you; you're like a great bull when you __want, aren't you, cher?"_

_Dean pressed his lips together, not trusting himself to respond. Her closeness was making him light-headed; jasmine and that other scent-faint, elusive._

_"It was a mistake to kill the others so quickly," she sighed, her beautiful violet eyes shining. "Surely I could have made it work. But I was angry—so angry."_

_He made soothing noises, and in his desire, he felt himself slipping helplessly down the slope from falsity to sincerity. A sudden wave of fury at the people who had wronged her rolled over him; his hands itched to do the guilty parties their justice._

_"When Grand-mere told me of your visit and the questions you asked…I watched you, I saw you in the streets…I knew right away that you were strong-capable." Colette ran her slim fingers through his hair as though Dean were a favorite pet. "I may have to finish Grand-mere, too—but I know you'll help me, won't you? Oh, Dean, I promise to make it worth your while. Rise up now, cher."_

_He climbed slowly to his feet, noting for the first time how tall she was—her remarkable eyes only a few scant inches beneath his own eye level. She held his gaze, smiling, and poured the last ounce of her will into the spell that she wove around him. Dean's mouth went slack as a strange weightlessness flowed over him like water, a lassitude that sent his worries floating away like so much jetsam. When Colette bent her neck to nuzzle at his throat, his vision grayed as the sensation took him. She began to murmur a sing-song chant in Creole, her hands sliding across his bare chest and back, her long nails trailing over his shoulders. The next time he was aware of anything, he was stretched on the springy grass, the moon's bright countenance blinding his staring eyes and Colette Devereaux on top of him. The jasmine scent of her suffocated his senses and sent any semblance of coherent thought reeling. Her mouth roamed the skin of his chest, her tongue teasing his nipples. Dean arched under her with a ragged moan, holding her slim frame with both hands and only dimly aware that the __gris-gris bag had fallen from his grasp._

_With an impatient snarl, he rolled himself atop her, savagely pleased at the soft suppleness of her as her pliant limbs wrapped around his body, engulfing him, drowning him. Her kisses pushed his sanity to the breaking point; he knew that he would do anything she asked—anything at all-and, despairing, he gave himself up for lost. With his final submission, Dean was abruptly desperate to be inside of her-to be owned by her and be done. He freed one hand and buried it in the grass, meaning only to lift his body high enough to shuck himself out of his jeans…but his hand came down on the smooth leather of the __gris-gris bag and it was like the slap of a cold hand on his flushed face._

_Colette whispered his name, the sound of her voice sending gooseflesh rippling down his back. Dean shook his head, his eyes gone heavy-lidded and unfocused in his passion. Her body was pure pleasure against his, her own ardor for him insistent, impatient. His moment of clarity waned, his concentration wavering. Panicked, he bit down hard on his own tongue. The pain cut through the haze of his lust like a burning wire and he tasted the coppery tang of his own blood—suddenly recognizing the elusive smell under Colette's screen of jasmine for what it was. Blood. Sacrifice._

_With a final, desperate gasp of effort, Dean pulled the woman close and pressed the gris-gris bag hard against the bare skin of her neck. Her eyes flew wide, her lips skinning back from her teeth with a hiss of sudden fear. He did not know if the words Daddy Six-Fingers had taught him would come until he was saying them, his voice shaking but strong. "You have no power over me—by this charm is your power broken. I know who you are, Colette Devereaux—your power over me is broken."_

_Her scream of agonized rage followed him down into the immense darkness that roared up to drag him into its depths._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~xxx~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean's body arched suddenly on the big bed like a gaffed fish, almost guttering the red and white candles that burned on the bedside table, and a strangled moan tore from his throat.

"Dean!" Sam leapt from the chair where he had been dozing and was at his brother's side in an instant.

"Don't you touch him!" Anton shouted, waddling quickly over to the bed. "The boy like to kill you if'n you mess with him now, Sam. He's fightin'…and he ain't even awake yet. Let him be a minute so's we can see."

Dean was breathing heavily, his unseeing eyes wide and wild. He began to thrash violently and Anton had to physically restrain Sam, holding the younger man in an iron grip and clucking his tongue impatiently as he did. "_Wait_, boy." he chided Sam gently. "Wait."

After a few moments, Dean's movements finally slowed, his rasping breaths easing. As the two men watched, he rolled his head and murmured incoherently, his eyes drifting closed. In seconds he was still, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Sam peered at his brother's face, amazed to see Dean's features relaxed and almost child-like in exhausted slumber. "He's…asleep."

"I tol' you," laughed Anton. "He done it, and now we leave him be. This'll be the first real sleep that boy had in days." Leaning over the bed, he checked the _gris-gris_ bag that he had spent most of that afternoon working to build for Dean Winchester with bones and herbs, his own blood and the old spells he had been taught when he was a boy. He was unsurprised to see that the bag tied around the Winchester boy's neck looked crushed and damp, with a smear of dirt and bits of grass that had no business being thereat all clinging to the soft leather. "Daddy ain't lost his touch, after all," he said softly, his voice grimly satisfied. "Now you best watch yo' back in the waking world, brother. Maybe we all should."


	5. Chapter 5

**ix.**

Long bars of golden late-morning sunlight were stretched across the polished wood floors of Daddy Six-Finger's elegantly appointed breakfast room by the time Dean Winchester finally wandered in. Sam looked up from the day's edition of the _Times-Picayune_, his expression changing from one of tight-lipped grimness to one of genuine pleasure.

"Dean," he greeted his brother. "How're how're you feeling, man?"

In reply, the elder Winchester yawned hugely, rubbing a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Something that might have been a greeting, but sounded more like the rumble of a newly wakened grizzly bear, issued from deep in his chest. With shuffling steps, he moved to the table and slouched down in a chair, regarding Sam with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes. "Coffee," he croaked, after a moment.

Snorting, Sam reached behind himself to the sideboard, bringing an elaborate silver percolator back to the main table. Dean watched greedily as he poured steaming hot coffee into a heavy mug and handed it over. Slurping a taste despite the liquid's heat, Dean let his leaf-green eyes close as he groaned in pleasure.

Sam went back to his paper with a low chuckle, knowing his brother well enough to realize that conversation was beyond him until the coffee had had time to kick in. Some minutes passed in companionable silence before the elder brother cleared his throat to gain attention. "Thanks for your help, Sammy," He said softly.

Looking up, Sam met his brother's earnest, slightly chagrined gaze. "It's Anton you need to thank, Dean, not me; I didn't do a damn thing."

The elder Winchester nodded soberly. "I know that."

"And at some point in the near future I'd like to talk to you about the fact that you kept me in the dark on this one."

Looking pained, Dean nodded. "Fair enough."

"Okay, then," Sam shook his newspaper. "I have news."

"What?" Dean growled as he smeared a croissant with gobs of orange marmalade. "Is this gonna upset me?"

"I can almost guarantee it." Folding the paper matter-of-factly, Sam handed it to his brother. "Page one."

One hand taken up by the already half-eaten croissant, Dean took the paper with his free hand. In seconds he had stopped chewing, his features frozen as his eyes sped down the page. Finally, he choked down his mouthful of food and looked up at his brother. "Out the eighteenth floor window?"

Sam nodded minutely. "Through the safety glass and everything."

"Ah, shit." Dean dropped the remainder of his breakfast onto a plate uneaten, his appetite forgotten. "Godammit, this is all my fault."

Incredulous, Sam gaped at him. "It's your fault that Bernard Toohey jumped from his office window last night to splatter himself all over Canal Street?"

"Yeah, Sammy…don't you see? If I had managed to deal with—" He stopped short, suddenly looking away from his brother and out the leaded glass windows along one wall of the breakfast room. "If I had dealt with that…woman…then our old pal Bernie would be alive this morning."

"That's bullshit, Dean," Snapped Sam, eyeing his brother closely. "Toohey was no innocent; he got himself involved in this the same as those other guys...are you sure you're alright?"

Still avoiding Sam's eyes, Dean nodded vigorously. "Fine." He rose abruptly. "We've got to get down there and ask a few questions—"

"About what?" interrupted Sam. "We know exactly what's going on here, Dean."

The older man hesitated, frowning. "But I figured we should check—"

"Dean," Sam said gently. "We don't need to waste the time. The only way to stop this is to find Colette."

At the mention of her name, Dean drew a sharp breath, an involuntary shudder rippling over him as he swayed slightly, catching at a chair back to steady himself. Sam shot to his feet in alarm, reaching across the small table to catch the other man by the shoulder. "Easy," he murmured. "Easy, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean's color had gone ashen and he slowly worked himself back into a chair, moving as carefully as though his body were made of glass. "Okay."

Sam reseated himself opposite his brother, his keenly intelligent hazel eyes studying the other man. "Was it…was it that bad?"

The look Dean offered him was haunted and shaken. "I was so damn _close_, Sammy," he rasped softly. "I was ready to give in…and now I'm spooked."

Sam reached out a long arm and squeezed the older man's shoulder in sympathetic understanding, letting his presence lend his brother unspoken support. After a time, Dean shook himself and his features twisted in a moue of displeasure. "Over a _chick_," he muttered darkly.

Sam snorted ironically, sitting back as he sensed the moment pass. "Yeah, Dean—like we've got no experience with the power a woman can possess? Sex has nothing to do with it, dude."

Rapidly regaining some of his usual cheek, Dean managed a grin. "Sammy, obviously you need to get laid more—sex has everything to do with everything."

Sam flushed, bridling. "I just meant—"

But Dean only laughed and clapped the younger man on the shoulder as he stood again. "I know what you meant, Sammy. So let's go find this bitch and show her the power of _our_ sex for a change."

**x.**

"Y'all keep your eyes open, hear?" A drained-looking Daddy Six-Fingers admonished the Winchesters as they took their leave in the house's massive foyer. His dark eyes lit purposefully on Sam's face. "I reckon y'all know what needs done now."

"We do." Sam nodded.

"Yes, sir," Dean agreed seriously. "We'll be careful, and thanks again."

The big man chuckled softly. "I tol' you to call me Anton, boy."

"Yes, sir," Dean responded automatically, then blushed to the roots of his hair. "Uh. Anton."

With a louder laugh, Daddy winked at Sam and clasped Dean's hand. "Boys, I'm jest teasin'. Manners ain't so common no mo' and y'all's jest tickle me silly." His round face grew sober. "Watch out fo' yourselves, and remember, y'all—tonight is the full moon."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~xxx~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arming a sheen of sweat off his forehead, Sam Winchester stopped walking to glare at his brother. He shifted the uncomfortable weight of the backpack they had fetched from the trunk of the Impala from one should to the other. "Dean, this is ridiculous."

Dean paused and the dense crowd of tourists moving past the brothers parted around them like a stream rushing past a boulder. "What?" growled the older man, plucking his t-shirt momentarily away from sweat-damp skin of his body as he frowned at Sam. "What's ridiculous—besides the ungodly heat of this place?"

"We've been wandering the Quarter for over two hours."

Dean feigned a look of surprise and stared around at the bustling, narrow street with its crowded storefronts. "No, really?"

Ignoring his brother's sarcasm, Sam gestured to the west and the rapidly setting sun. "It's nearly dusk; the moon will rise in the next hour."

"Thank for the news flash, Sammy," quipped Dean in irritation. "Do you have a point?"

Sam stared at the other man in silence, oblivious to the annoyed glances beginning to be shot at them by the inconvenienced passers-by who squeezed past on either side. "You're avoiding this," he said finally, his rich voice soft with wonder. "Shit, you really _are_spooked. Dean, I've never seen you like this."

The older man looked away, squinting at the dying red-gold light of the setting sun, his handsome features carefully blank. Finally, he glanced at Sam and jerked his head to one side before turning and striding purposefully through the crowd. Sam followed his brother less than a hundred steps to a small, busy corner bar. At the counter, Dean caught the bartender's attention. "Whisky," he ordered curtly, dropping a twenty on the scarred countertop. Sam shook his head to the barkeep's querulous look and settled himself next to his brother without a word. When the glass arrived, Dean drew a deep breath and knocked it back in one swallow. "Another," he told the barman. The second glass he sipped slowly, and Sam did not interrupt his thoughts, but only watched him curiously.

Rolling the glass of liquor in his broad, calloused hands, Dean chuckled softly, but the sound had a bitter edge. "I'm afraid, Sam."

"We both are, Dean," Sam replied quietly. "It's the nature of the work."

But the older man shook his head. "No, you don't understand." He took another sip of his drink. "I'm not afraid of her…I'm afraid of me."

"What?"

Dean swung his green gaze to meet his brother's eyes. "I'm afraid that when I see her…when she commands me…I'm afraid of what I might do."

"Dean—"

"Sammy," the older man interrupted, "I don't know if I can trust myself."

Sam regarded his brother steadily. "It's okay, Dean. I trust you enough for the both of us."

Dean looked away again, feeling his eyes sting at the younger man's sincerity. "She got her hooks in me, Sammy," He insisted. "Hell, I _wanted_to go over."

"But you didn't."

"Sammy…"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said levelly. "You didn't, and that's all that matters." Reaching over, he took the glass from his brother's hand and tipped the last of the liquid down his own throat, grimacing at the taste. "Enough. Let's quit wasting time and go where we need to go. Where we should have gone when we left Daddy's. It's time to be done with this."


	6. Chapter 6

**xi.**

The street in front of Mama Cecile's shop was purple in the dusk, quiet and oddly still. Distant noise from the busier parts of the French Quarter could be heard, but the sounds seemed flat and lifeless, as though they encountered some strange resistance in the air. Sam's firm knock on the locked front door was as loud as cannon fire in the dimness. The Winchesters waited for a moment, then exchanged glances.

Pulling a small leather case from his back pocket, Dean withdrew his lock pick and went to work on the door as Sam watched the quiet street warily. A moment later Dean turned the handle and the brothers were inside the tiny shop.

"Mama?" Sam called boldly up the stairs, but no sound came in reply. Shifting the backpack, he unzipped it, offering Dean a sawed-off shotgun and himself withdrawing their father's worn and dog-eared Hunting journal. He reslung the pack onto his shoulders and drew a pistol from the waistband of his jeans.

"Let's rock and roll," Dean grated, cocking both barrels of the shotgun.

The men crept cautiously up the narrow stairs, their eyes wide in the near-dark, senses attuned for any noise. As they made the turn on the landing, they saw faint yellow light from Cecile's rooms. Exchanging another glance, the two men nodded tightly at one another and rushed quickly up the last few steps with practiced ease, their weapons held high and ready.

Mama Cecile's room looked much the same as it did before, except that instead of the frail and elderly old woman who had sat in the worn armchair before, a young and devastatingly beautiful woman now sat expectantly.

"Boys," Colette Devereaux said genially, "what took you so long?" She smiled and stood up.

Sam Winchester found himself gaping at the woman, his gun wavering as he lost himself in admiration of her astonishing, almost preternatural beauty. Colette raised her arm gracefully, and, pointing at the younger brother, murmured a soft word.

"Sammy!" Dean snarled in alarm. "Snap out of it!"

Colette Devereaux laughed and moved gracefully toward them across the room, winding effortlessly around the myriad of tiny tables and hanging charms. "Dean," she chided him, "I'm disappointed to see you like this, cher."

"Don't fucking move, Colette," the eldest Winchester snapped, his finger whitening on the trigger. "I'll kill you."

"No, you won't." She smiled again and both men became aware of the sudden, heavy scent of jasmine. "You can't, cher. You're still mine, like it or not." Her delicate features hardened, the miraculous violet color of her eyes darkening perilously. "Now kneel til I'm ready to deal with you, cher."

The twin barrels of the shotgun dipped momentarily, then leveled again as Dean shook his head, his breath rasping harshly. "No."

Colette arched a finely drawn brow as the air in the room thickened appreciably. "No?"

"No," Dean snarled through clenched teeth. He cut his eyes at his brother, but Sam merely stood staring, his expression clouded and confused. "Sammy!"

The small tabletop lamp flickered as the charms hung overhead began to sway and stir in an unfelt wind. Colette Devereaux tossed her cloud of gleaming hair over her shoulders as living darkness began to gather and swirl around her feet. "Did you say 'no'?" she asked Dean pleasantly. The shadow began to gain weight and substance, winding up and around Colette's body like a snake as a deep and biting cold began to seep into the room. "You know, Dean, after what happened with William Enloe, I decided that I would never be bested by a man again." Her low laugh was giddy with power. "So I made new friends to help me keep that promise."

"It's evil, Colette," Dean hissed furiously. "Don't you see that?"

"Yes." She gave an elegant little shrug. "C'est le vie."

Fighting to master himself, Dean Winchester's full mouth twisted sardonically at her reply. "Fuck it, then. I asked nice." With a final, gargantuan effort, he raised the weapon and pulled both triggers…but the shotgun only clicked hollowly in his hands.

Colette's smile turned savage. "See? Now, I will brook no further disrespect from you, ma cher. _Kneel_." She raised her arm, pointing at Dean, and the shadow curled eagerly along the line of her finger. Dean grunted in pain, his gun clattering to the floor as he fell heavily to his knees. "Better," cooed Colette in satisfaction, then turned her attention to Sam. "Ah, now, the younger brother."

She swayed toward him as he merely stared at her, bemused. The shadow danced busily around her and dark lightnings crackled in her indigo eyes as she trailed a hand across the broad breadth of his shoulders and down the hard flatness of his belly. "Perhaps I was too hasty in my earlier assessment of you boys, after all…I think you'll do just fine, Sam."

"Bitch," Dean gasped from the floor behind her, his features contorted with pain. "Leave him. Alone."

But Colette was chanting under her breath as she traced slow circles around Sam, whose pistol now hung slack and forgotten from his long fingers. At last, Devereaux paused before him and craned her neck to study his face. "You're very tall, cher," she purred huskily. "Bend down here."

Obediently, his expression distant, Sam inclined his head and Colette wound the fingers of one hand through his heavy chestnut hair, bestowing him a long, slow kiss. When she was finished, she allowed him to straighten as her hand drifted down and across the bulge in the front of his jeans. "Oh," she gasped delightedly, casting Dean a sly look. "Such remarkable, brotherly similarities."

"Sammy!" Dean choked desperately. "Sammy, goddammit, wake up!"

"Hush now," Colette's lovely face grew stern as she studied Dean's struggling figure. "The boy has less ego than you, cher; it makes him so much easier to handle. I should have gone to him first, I see that now."

"Don't—" Dean gagged, his eyes bloodshot with the effort of resisting her. "Please—"

"The moon is full tonight, cher." She leaned over, narrowing her beautiful eyes at him. "I can do anything I like…I wonder if I should let your brother kill you for me or simply order you to stop breathing….which would be more fun to watch?"

"Ah, mon petit fille, you disappoint me so."

Colette Devereaux whirled at the quiet voice, her expression alarmed.

The old woman gazed at her from the top of the stairway, her fragile frame swaying in the cold wind. "Grand mere," Colette whispered. "What are you doing here? I sent you to Baton Rouge with Tay Tay."

"Non, cherie," Mama Cecile replied, hobbling up the last few steps. "I did not go. I feared you was up ta no good, and here y'all are."

The swirling shadow of darkness around Colette intensified. "Go away from here, old woman," she hissed in frustration. "I'm busy tonight."

But Mama Cecile tottered closer, seemingly unmindful of the menacing shade moving restlessly around her great granddaughter. "I did for you all yo' life, girl," The old woman said sadly in her heavily accented speech. "I cain't believe you would consort wid dis kind after all I done taught you. Dis has to stop."

"You will force my actions, will you?" Colette hissed angrily, eyes flashing. "I didn't want your blood on my own hands."

Cecile frowned, the expression making of her already seamed face a mask of ancient displeasure. She gestured at the two Winchester brothers who were stuck in position like flies in amber. "You gon' have one of des here po' boys to snap my neck for you, girl? Is dat what you had in mind?"

"Yes, old woman," Colette answered coolly, tipping her chin upward. "That was my desire."

"Desire," Cecile shook her head. She wrapped bony arms around herself as though she could shelter her body from feeling the brutal cold in the room. Her breath steamed in the chill air. "You always was too pretty by half, cherie. _Desire _what ruined you, cain't you see?"

But Colette only rolled her eyes in disgust as the black shadow swelled around her. "It's not my fault that men have always desired me; or that I could control them through it. Enough talking."

"You break my heart, girl," sighed Cecile sorrowfully.

Colette pointed at the old woman, her flawless face contorted in sudden rage. She barked a word that was all hard syllables and sharp edges and the cold surged in a dark wave of blackness as Cecile bowed her head—and the blackness was met with sudden, blinding whiteness. The shadow retreated with a keening wail of inhuman pain that drove Colette back with a shriek of her own. Cecile's form grew, her back straightening as youth flowed over her like a mantle; her now smooth face the very picture of grave judgment and a beauty so pure it was terrifying. The light advanced against the shade…and Dean Winchester suddenly found himself flat on his back and thinking of summer and green, growing things and the simple perfection of a clear, blue sky.

With a deafening crack of sound that shook the entire building, everything went abruptly still.

Blinking, Dean realized he was staring at the charm-hung ceiling of the room in the dim light of the single table lamp. With a start, he scrambled around and into a defensive half-crouch. Mama Cecile was standing over the limp form of Colette Devereaux and Sam sat on the floor blinking confusedly at the old woman, blood trickling from his ears. "Sammy," Dean half-staggered half-crawled to his brother's side. "Sammy, are you alright?"

"Dean," the younger man rasped quietly. "Did you see that?"

They both turned to stare at Mama Cecile, who had moved slowly over to her old armchair. With a grunt of effort, she lowered herself into the seat and sighed, closing her eyes as they watched silently. "Y'all boys better go on now," she murmured in a strange voice and Sam flinched as though struck.

"Yes, ma'am," he said respectfully, struggling to his feet with Dean's help. "We'll go."

Dean paused, gazing down at Colette's slowly breathing figure despite Sam's discreet tugging at his elbow. "Can we—can't we help you with her?"

Cecile's eyes fluttered open, as startlingly green as new grass. Dean sucked in a surprised breath as a slow smile curled across the old woman's mouth. "No. I will…take care of her," she said heavily in the strange voice that was not her own. Her bright green gaze flickered greedily up and down Dean's body. "But I always did have a soft spot for the pretty ones; you may stay if you so…_desire_."

"No, ma'am," Sam cut in hastily in a deeply reverent voice, finally yanking Dean forcefully behind him as he backed toward the stairway. "Thank you, though. Thank you very much for all you've done for us."

With a long sigh, Cecile's eyes closed again. "Y'all bes' go now afore you cain't," breathed the soft old woman's voice that they recognized.

"Thank you, Mama," Sam said and turned to hustle his brother down the stairs as fast as their legs would carry them.

**xii.**

"Ma-what?" Dean asked confusedly, turning the Impala's radio down and leaning toward his brother. "What's a Mawush?" The old car rumbled powerfully along the dark road, the lights of the city of New Orleans dwindling away in the distance behind them.

"Mawu," corrected Sam quietly, gazing distractedly out the passenger side window as the old car rolled serenely across a bridge over the Mississippi River; the black water barely visible despite the light of the moon, sluggish and slow and implacable. "Mawu is the great Earth Goddess of the West African tribes. It fits with everything we know about Mama Cecile and her practice. I'm pretty sure we just saw an aspect of the goddess back there."

Dean nodded seriously, then quirked an eyebrow and shrugged. "She seemed like a nice sort of girl."

Sam snorted and scowled impressively. "She's the most powerful god in their entire pantheon; she could've crushed us like bugs…just like she did to Colette—and whatever demon was helping her. But, for some reason, she chose to spare us."

"That old lady liked your manners, my man." Dean grinned suggestively. "That's why."

"Shut up, Dean." Sam snapped uncomfortably. "What matters is that we're damn lucky we didn't end up like Collette."

The older Winchester shuddered visibly, then rolled his shoulders like a man who had just put down a very heavy weight. "Hey, here's an idea," he said flatly. "let's not _ever _mention that name again."

Sam shifted in his seat, avoiding his brother's searing glance. "Agreed."

The old car purred comfortingly beneath them as they rode along in silence for some time, the waning moon shining brightly enough to make the headlights redundant. Feeling truly safe for the first time in days, Sam Winchester finally dropped his head back, his eye drifting closed. A deep sigh of both relaxation and relief slipped from his chest as he let himself fall toward sleep.

"So," Dean Winchester said loudly, cranking the music up several notches and wiggling comfortably down into his seat, eager for conversation. "You said Cecile was hosting the big Kahuna of some West African pantheon, huh?"

Sam opened his eyes and shot his brother a bleary-eyed dirty look. "Yeah," he sighed, realizing resignedly that his brief moment of peace and quiet was over. "but Kahuna is a Hawa'iian term."

"Sure, I knew that," Dean grinned his familiar rogue's grin and nodded sagely. "But what the hell is a 'pantheon', anyway?"


End file.
